From Backstage
by Storms-Are-My-Nature
Summary: A short series of ficlets focussing on Capt. John after he left, after 'Exit Wounds'. A twist on the character...


**Fun **

**This is just the first chapter – there should be more, updated (sporadically) when I have the time. :-) Enjoy… **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Torchwood. Plain and simple. **

The streets were silent in the mornings. Grey and empty, they mocked him as he trudged by. His feet were heavy, his head low and examining the cracked pavement; he wasn't really looking at it. He wasn't really looking at anything. Just letting everything wash by, still trying to get his head clear.

He didn't have the energy for his usual swagger. Normally, he would stride down the street, head up and flirtatious leer on his features, unbothered by the filthy water his boots splashed through. He would be straight into any action going on, having a hell of a time and loving every minute of adrenaline-fuelled fun.

Now… now, he felt like somebody had sneaked in without his notice, stolen something he didn't even know that he had, and slipped away, silent and secretive. He felt dissociated from his actions, like he was watching himself from backstage. Watching as he carried out the motions required to fix himself, to attempt to work without that vital piece, that vital piece that he didn't even know what it was.

He saw himself lift his head, hooking his thumbs into his belt and trying to fix a mask into position; something to hide from the world behind, until he found something. Anything. He didn't really know what he was looking for, but whatever it was, it better be good.

"Morning," a grungy-looking man with a shaven head hailed him from a weed-ridden garden. He had a black serpent-tattoo coiling up his shoulder, revealed by his sleeve-less top.

He watched as he nodded back, unsure of what to say. How did you greet people on Earth, in the 21st century? The French had a kissing thing, didn't they? Something told him that that wouldn't go down so well here, however.

His belt clinked slightly as he walked; the man's eyes widened as they saw the chunky black gun, and he took a stumbling step backwards.

He saw as he smirked slightly, amused by the guy's panic. _Hell, this place is so_ backward. "Chill, buddy," he called out, grinning wickedly. "I don't shoot unless I have reason. Not that it needs to be a _good_ reason, I hasten to add…"

The man swallowed and backed into the porch, his terrified eyes not leaving the gun at That-John's hip.

That-John sighed. "C'mon, it's just a necessary precaution! It's not like I'm going to shoot you. Well, I say that, but I'd probably be lying. Who knows, I might shoot you in the future. I just don't know…" he trailed off delicately, shrugging and holding back an amused grin as the man near fell through the door in his attempt to scramble to safety.

He continued ambling down the street, smiling delightedly as he heard the sound of police sirens wailing plaintively in the distance. "That's more like it," he said smugly, before breaking into a relaxed run. "Now the fun starts."

This-John watched all of this play out, without really having any part in it. That-John was the player on the stage at the moment; he would flirt, swagger and shag his way through Cardiff until he fell from his pedestal and This-John would be left to pick up the pieces.

This-John had learnt. Learnt that life wasn't all about having fun. For, really, how can you have "fun" when the real answer lay in _living_?

'Don't go too far,' This-John warned That-John. 'Don't go so far that you can't come back.'

That-John smirked. 'You're no fun. Go whimpering back to Jack if that's what you want – just let me have fun.'

'But it's not real fun.'

'What's real fun if not this?' That-John asked. 'Where's the fun in being sensible, and reliable, and—'

'But what happens when, at the end of the day, we haven't anything left?' This-John interrupted, angry. 'How can you throw away my life as well as yours?'

'In case you hadn't noticed, we're the same person,' That-John said wryly. 'There isn't really a choice.'

'There's always a choice,' This-John said, 'Jack said as much.'

That-John snorted. 'Jack is a blind idiot. He wouldn't recognise fun if it bit him on the nose and said, "Hey, I'm fun!"' He was about to say something more, but was interrupted by a cop barrelling down the street. 'I'm in charge now – and I want a good time.'

As they That-John raced off, This-John still stuck back-stage, This-John whispered, 'I'm sorry.'

**Awfully short, I know… but I hope that you liked it all the same. If you hadn't understood, I've given John MPD/DID. I really hope that played out – I'm fascinated by the topic of multiplicity, so I wanted to try my hand at writing it. :-) **

**Reviews are snuggled and fed chocolate-chip cookies, like always! ;-)**


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